The Vampire of Sacramento
by A.N. Clara
Summary: Unlocked doors were an invitation. Locked doors meant he was unwelcome and he left well alone. He spent all night patrolling streets, checking doors, and killing those inside the unlocked homes. Snapped!Alfred. Human AU. Oneshot. Rated M for gore and disturbing themes.


A/N: Inspired by the Vampire of Sacramento serial killings. Cannibalism, dismemberment, and other disturbing themes included.

* * *

The sound of the blender had always sent a thrill through the man operating it and gave him a high like nothing else ever had. He hummed a sickeningly sweet lullaby that was drowned out by the soothing whirring of the appliance, admiring the gentle vibration that ran through the finger he held against the pulse button. Once the occasional clunking of a solid piece coming into contact with the blade had died down, Alfred smirked to himself, turning the blender off. He poured a tall glass half full with coke, still humming the eerie tune.

"I am so grateful that you invited me into your home," he said loudly as though speaking to someone in the other room.

Alfred admired the thick red paste that had formed in the blender and began to pour the mixture into the glass. The scent of iron and something else he could never pinpoint but enjoyed regardless filled his nose. He inhaled it deeply, closing his eyes to fully take it in. There was nothing like it in the entire world.

He knocked back the concoction, draining the entire glass in just a few gulps, letting his favorite drink soothe the thirst he had not quenched for several months. It wasn't often he prepared such a delicacy due to the precautions he would have to take and the requirements he had to fulfil before he could do so. After he had finished off his drink, he ran his finger along the rim and licked the remnants.

The blond man set his glass on the counter and looked at his generous hosts. They were seated at the bar facing him, faces devoid of emotion, all without seeing. Where their eyes should have been, there were bloodied caverns. Thick crimson streaks ran down their cheeks like tears. Alfred cocked his head to the side upon noticing this, grinning ear to ear. He _swore_ that he told them not to cry. Even in death, they were defying him. He didn't like that at all.

Alfred shushed them quietly as one would when comforting a child that had a nightmare, dabbing a wet cloth against each of their faces until the bloody tears were gone. "There, there. Don't cry. You've been perfect! Absolutely perfect, I promise."

They could not answer even if they were still alive; he'd taken their tongues first. Alfred simply hated screamers–they gave him such a headache, and that spoiled the rare treat they helped create. He began this tradition after the second or third attempt, finding that he could enjoy his hosts' company longer when they were quiet. They didn't seem to mind, or at least, they never told him if they did.

"You see," Alfred drawled, "I've always had this… fixation. Blood fascinated me ever since I was a boy. I loved it–don't know why. Once I was even hospitalized because I injected myself with rabbit's blood when I was a teenager, just to see what would happen. Why on earth would I think that was a good idea?"

He received no response.

"Obviously I couldn't use the blood of an animal! That's just ridiculous. I needed real blood–had to be human–and it had to be fresh. There's no need to inject that like heroin, now is there? It is more enjoyable to drink it like so." Alfred pointed toward the glass.

"So, thank you for both your delicious lifeblood and the use of your blender. Oh! I almost forgot. Thank you for inviting me in! You wouldn't believe how unwelcome I was in your neighbors' homes. All of them, their doors locked! I understand when I'm not wanted, so I moved on, hoping I'd find a lovely family such as yours that would let me in."

Alfred never entered a house if the door was locked. It would be rude of him to go inside when he was not welcome. He took unlocked homes as an invitation, and was thankful for the loving people who allowed him inside so he could ease his thirst. They were usually young and lived with several others. The old and single folks never seemed to want Alfred to pay them a visit, but he took no offence. That was their decision.

There was a particularly charming family that lived in the house Alfred found himself in tonight. A handsome man with long blonde hair, his exotically attractive wife with tan skin and wavy brown hair, and a teenager that looked strikingly similar to the first. Alfred assumed he was the man's brother since he was not old enough to have a son that age. He enjoyed looking at them, but detested when they talked. The elder two had overwhelming French accents that Alfred still couldn't get out of his head, though the other did not speak at all, not even to plead for his life. He actually liked the quiet one. It was a shame they all had to die.

It was the code. Alfred had absolutely no control over it. He couldn't pick and choose who he killed and turned into his delicious drink. Everyone in the unlocked house must take part in the ritual, no exceptions. That included children. Alfred did not like hurting the children, but it was all part of the ceremony.

One British family he had met several months before that had a child crossed his mind. The boy looked like a carbon copy of his father. They had the same blond hair and outrageously bushy eyebrows. Alfred was rather amused by that. He thought it was strange, killing two people who looked nearly identical. The mother was not at home that night, out of town for some reason, and Alfred was so frustrated by that he could have screamed. He did not like splitting up families. Had he realized her absence before, he might have reconsidered.

He leaned his elbows on the counter and looked at the corpses like they might supply something to the conversation. The man's throat was slit so that Alfred could take his blood, he wouldn't be talking. He glanced at the woman, urging her to speak up. She had no problem with being vocal before he tore her heart out. Nothing. Alfred beamed at the quiet boy on the end. His skull had been bashed in by a meat tenderizer from his own kitchen, but only in the back, so you might think he could have been alright if it weren't for the eyes.

"I really liked you, you know. You didn't scream like her or try to bargain for your life like him. I'm sorry, kid. I could have at least let you keep your tongue for being the MVP."

The teen didn't reply and Alfred shrugged at him, brushing off the rejection. He turned toward the carnage that littered the kitchen with a shameful shake of his head. _They don't even have the decency to help me clean up_, he thought bitterly. _Look at the mess they made._ Alfred rinsed his glass out and set it upside down in the sink. He removed the top of the blender, filled it with water and soap, and left it on the counter.

"We'll let that one soak," he stated casually.

Alfred looked at the time. It was nearly three in the morning and he would have to leave soon. But first he had to fix up the place. His mother did not raise a slob, after all. He went so far as to wipe down the counters, disposing of the internal organs he borrowed from his hosts and bone fragments that would have to go to waste. He hummed the morbid lullaby to himself while he worked, scrubbing blood from nearly every surface in the kitchen.

Before he left, Alfred took the time to write a note, something he didn't normally do, and stuck it outside the front door on his way out. The teenager deserved that much, he thought. He was unsure what to sign the short letter with, so he used the name the news reports had given him, having taken a liking to it.

To whom it may concern:

A beautiful family welcomed me into their home tonight. They provided me with (mostly) pleasant company, a delightful meal, and plenty of entertainment. I believe they will be greatly missed.

Thank you,

Vampire of Sacramento


End file.
